


tethered

by doofusface



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Circus, F/M, Minor Changes in Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: New York in the 21st century should, by all accounts, have been much easier to navigate when it came to love.[A modern!AU]





	1. step one: meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wryencounter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wryencounter/gifts).



> huge, HUGE s/o to mama cheetah for reading through this and encouraging me, you da best fam

“Lettie, did you see the new guy?” Anne asked as she entered the older woman’s dressing room. The latter was in the middle of beard-care.

Lettie kept on combing her beard. “Oh, yes. Barnum was taking him around backstage before my set. Why do you ask?”

Anne held up her phone—an article on Phillip Carlyle’s latest and greatest play to “grace high society’s humble hearts” was displayed in blaring bluish-white light. She raised her eyebrows, willing the bearded lady to continue.

“Oh, fancy.”

Anne repeated the gesture.

Lettie choked back a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t really know what else you want me to say.”

“What’s a high-brow, _rich_ , white man doing getting mixed up with _us_?” Anne asked finally, with rising intensity.

A knock from behind caused both ladies to turn, and W.D. grinned. “Word is he’s bored up in uptown. Nice slam, earlier, by the way.”

Anne shrugged, recalling her brother’s (and P.T.’s) silent laughter at her educating the playwright on everyone having an act. “He’s fishy.”

“ _Barnum’s_ fishy, sweetie, but he’s altogether alright,” Lettie cut in with a snort. She put down her comb and reached for some product across her table. “‘sides, who are _we_ to judge on appearance, hm?”

“ _Point_ ,” Anne submitted, then turned to her brother, “but who gets bored being comfortable in their gadget-packed New York penthouse?”

W.D. had pulled out his phone, scrolling through something or other that she couldn’t see. “Looks like he’s got a driver and butler, too. Fancy.”

“He’s _gotta_ have an act.”

“ _Woo_ , if his act is being rich, I’d like to audition,” Lettie laughed, getting up to stride over to W.D., who high-fived her.

Anne laughed lightly, rolling her eyes. “Wouldn’t we all?” She moved towards the door, tapping her brother on the shoulder. “I’ll go on ahead. My turn for groceries.”

He nodded, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll get everything cleaned up here. You’ve got my Metrocard?”

She nodded, already halfway out the door. “Later.”

“See ya.”

(Dreams that night are filled with ice-blue eyes, reverent and steady— _focused_. Eyes on her, like a bridge, trying to convey something she can’t understand. They don’t stray to the rest of her face or self, and she is stuck while the world stands still and noises cease.

She is frozen by ice and blue, and falling has never before seemed so hard to do.)

 

* * *

Phillip Carlyle never thought himself much of a vain person, but all men are easier on themselves than others after all.

He gussies himself up for his first day at work, and quickly learns that bespoke suits are not made for carrying around theatrical props, nor handy—in any way, shape, or form—in the cleaning of stages and sewing of damaged clothing.

By the end of the day, his sleeves are rolled up, hair askew, and he feels like Death approaches, and she approaches quickly.

Barnum finds him slumped over a pile of excess sandbags and hay by the back exit, exhausted beyond all measure. The showman smiled, wide as ever. “So, how was it? Exciting, isn’t it?”

Phillip barely turned his head, frowning. “I can’t feel my anything.”

“Well, at least you finally realized the suit jacket wasn’t needed.”

“I don’t even know why I brought it,” Phillip lied. He was hoping to run into Anne, but she’d been too busy practicing with W.D., and _he’d_ been too busy trying to lug a crate of questionable origin up to the third floor of the Barnum Circus.

“Sure, sure,” Barnum said, patting him on the shoulder. Phillip grimaced, and someone laughed above them.

Both men looked up, and Phillip grimaced again—no amount of lint remover and hair gel could possibly have made his second interaction with _the_ Ms. Anne Wheeler any less embarrassing. She was out of her training clothes now, dressed down to jeans, a sweatshirt. The young circus partner mentally noted to buy more jeans for work, and save the suits for _actual shows_.

“Hey there, Anne! Off to dinner?” Barnum called, his smile never fading.

Anne smiled, leaning over the bannister. (Phillip felt like the air would never return to his lungs.) “Yes, sir. The others were asking if you and, uh,” she paused, her beauteous accent ringing in Phillip’s ears, ”— _Mr. Carlyle_ were coming as well?”  
“I don’t see why not,” Barnum replied. “Are my girls still there?”

As if on cue, the high-pitched giggling of Helen and Caroline Barnum rang through the halls. Anne nodded. “Yes, sir. And Charity’s getting the consensus on the restaurant.” As if noticing her lapse in politeness, she added, “Er, Mrs. Barnum, sir.”

Barnum laughed. “It’s been almost a year, Anne. No need to call me ‘sir’, and I’m sure Charity wouldn’t have minded the slip, either.”

“Old habits, si— _P.T._ ,” she coughed, catching herself. “Southern hospitality and all that.”

“Your parents raised you well, Ms. Wheeler,” Phillip heard himself say, but wondered how his lips could be moving if no air was entering his lungs. “Better than mine, surely.”

Anne raised a brow at him. “Mr. Carlyle—”

“Phillip, really.”

“—Phillip, _really_?” she teased, coaxing a smile from him. “Well, thank you, Phillip. But you shouldn’t discount the ease of a silver spoon.”

“That I can’t,” he replied, still unsure how his body was still working with her magic surrounding him. “But it must be nice, you know, to know your parents better than your nanny.”

Anne grinned, moving to sit over the railing. “Ah, guess us suburban southern folk do have the upper hand there—”

A crash echoes somewhere in the second floor, jolting Anne to a standing position. “What—“

“That’d be the girls,” Barnum announced solemnly. “Or Charles, but I highly doubt it.” He pulled Phillip upright, dusting him off, before looking back up to Anne. “We’ll get the rest of the packages sorted out here and meet you all at the restaurant. C’mon Phillip, don’t drool, now,” he joked, nudging the younger man and speaking the last sentence like a secret.

Anne saluted them, before running off to join the chorus of “Oh, dear”s at a faraway room. She chalked up the thumping in her chest to the adrenaline rush of…half-jogging.

Yeah, that’s it.

Half-jogging.

(Phillip sat across her and W.D. at the crowded diner two blocks down, grinning like a fool as he watched them interact. He trading stories of home with her once W.D. joined the other oddities in a little dance-off.

Her parents ran a small dance studio in New Orleans. W.D. and she moved to New York two years ago to try their luck. She liked sundaes half-melted and doused in chocolate, because her father liked it that way, too. She sang. Her brother, too.

And her favorite color was blue.

“Huh, had you pegged for pink,” he had said.

“It’s a recent development,” she’d replied.)

* * *

 

The weeks that followed were filled with dazzling new acts by the troupe, and more frequent group meetings on off-days. Anne looked forward to spending time lazing about with her crazy family, mostly hanging around her brother or the Barnum girls at parks or, more commonly, backstage.

She also looked forward to seeing Phillip in a more relaxed environment, not hauling aged crates and sandbags from one room to the other. So far, his only real “act” was his thinly-veiled love of drink, what with his ever-present flask—oh, yes, _flask_ , in this day and age—holstered to his belt, but even that wasn’t much to complain about. She’d hardly seen or smelled the alcohol since he started, and if ever, only on the longest days when he had to deal with angry picketers outside.

Anne thought him kind, dealing with those rabble-rousers and defending the troupe publicly from critics, online and in person. He fit in quite well, acting nothing short of a nanny to the rest of the group, making sure everyone had their checks and meals on time.

 _Quadruple_ -checking the trapeze equipment before every show.

W.D. had nudged her many times during these times, whispering, “Y’think he’d go through all that trouble if it were just me?”

“Shut up,” she’d said. “I’m sure he would.”

He’d chuckled. “Oho. Wanna bet, sis?”

“We have no nets and no harnesses. I _guarantee_ he’d still check it that much.”

(To Phillip’s credit, he did obsess over the equipment an almost equal amount, even when she’d called off sick due to the flu. But still, triple-checking was a notch less, and _that’s_ the story of how Anne Wheeler lost $30 and a week’s worth of chores to her dear, dear brother.)

She learned more about the man behind the fancy clothes and rich air. He laughed wildly, and his smile was beauty incarnate. He loved kids. He wished he could grow a beard as nice as Lettie’s. He spoke Thai with Chang and Eng. He majored in Creative Writing at Yale, and minored in Business.

He liked to watch her with unreserved awe during the show and practices, when he thought she couldn’t see, and would look away once she landed, pretending to be busy with one thing or another, but clapping on cue nonetheless.

He had one social media account, and it was constantly filled with their colorful circus troupe, flooding over the drab pictures of his trips to posh neighborhoods, greyscaled and empty-captioned.

He liked to compliment her skill. She always downplayed herself—she wasn’t formally trained in those expensive schools abroad.

He said, “Ms. Wheeler, a million degrees in dance or prose wouldn’t suffice to describe what I— _we_ all see when you—and, uh, W.D.—are on the trapeze.”

(She finally caved to their game, asking him to call her Anne.

She didn’t know he could smile so wide.)


	2. step two: impressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mega short chap 2, but yall are getting two updates tonight soooo

With growing enthusiasm for the show, Barnum started to hole up in his office more and more in an attempt to think up a new way to connect with a wider audience—or, as the group knew, Phillip’s (and Charity’s old) crowd.

One day, they’d all sat around to read a review together as was their practice, and Barnum seemed more affected by the negatives than usual.

“We’re used to controversy, P.T.,” Anne consoled.

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Barnum replied. “None of you should have to be.”

“C’mon Barnum, we’re sellin’ jokes n’ a show! Ain’t nobody out there to tell us we ain’t at least worth a laugh,” Charles hollered from his seat above a top crate.

“Hmm,” Barnum replied, thinking. “Gotta be some way…”

“I may have something.”

The group turned to find Phillip walking in, holding a thin, cardboard package. He was in one of his nicer suits, and seeing as none of them had heard from him all morning, they all felt the buzz of a surprise waiting to be revealed.

“What is it?” Barnum asked, breaking the silence.

Phillip smirked. “We’ve been invited to England. By the Queen.”

Hooting and whooping erupted from the troupe, and Anne looked around at her hodge-podge family before turning to him with a serious face. “Are _all_ of us invited?”

The air grew thick in the silence that followed. The oddest of oddities bore their gazes into Phillip, waiting. Hoping.

He turned to Anne. “I’ll have to tell her that either all of us go…or none of us do,” he answered solemnly, restarting the uproar of excitement.

Anne smiled, and turned to her brother. He gave her a _look_. She rolled her eyes. W.D. didn’t need to tell her twice.

Interracial relationships are, these days, normal.

Inter-class ones are not.

Certainly not where one half is part of a long line of Upper East Side business moguls and the other is a trapeze artist currently living in the most questionable part of Queens.

No, Anne knows. This will start and end with banter and dear friendship.

This can never cross over, unless he’s willing to lose all the comforts he’s grown so used to. The ball’s in his court—she has no qualms about herself, low status or not.

Let him show her he’s serious.

(The Queen and royal family love them all so much they get treated to stay a week longer than planned, and Lettie mourns the English accents she said she was sure she would near-never hear again.

“I’ll introduce you to some friends of mine, if you’d like. They’re terrible company, though,” Phillip said.

Lettie laughed, waving off the invitation. “Honey, if you find someone with a beard to match mine, then _maybe_.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, this didn't feel right in either chap 1 or 3 so it got its own lil break ._.


	3. step three: regretting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh.  
> heheh.
> 
> happy valentine's day ;D

_Coward_.

Anne saw their faces in the theatre box, dressed to the nines in clothing that could easily pay her rent for the next year. She saw their eyes boring into her hand—her hand, clasped with Phillip’s.

Jenny Lind iridescent voice could do little to coax her to stay, and she steeled her jaw, speed-walking to the nearest exit. If W.D. noticed, he knew better than to chase after her.

If Phillip did, and he _did_ , he didn’t know that the first step to apologizing would be to follow her.

So, this is high society in America’s melting pot…look down on the colored folks, look down on the poor. Nothing much has changed, now has it?

Anne raced to the circus, finding a spare change of clothes there, then took off for the subway. Home would be nice, now. She texts W.D. to use his key—she’ll be sleeping off something. Might’ve been that new place they tried for dinner.

Bless his heart, all he tells her is to take water and medicine. _I love you, sis_ , his text reads. _Show just ended. They’re not letting us into the reception? Lettie and Charles aint havin it._

She’d been chasing it for so long she didn’t realize she’d found it: Phillip Carlyle’s act--the brave man backstage was afraid of his own people.

And Barnum was loving the spotlight too much to remember his own family.

(She sees it on the news in the morning— _Circus Freaks Sabotage Swedish Singer’s Show_ , as if they weren’t on the list. As if they weren’t invited.

Then, online, she sees a grainy, dark-lit photo of herself and “New York’s Most Eligible Bachelor” appearing to hold hands. The comments underneath the article are a mix of sad anger and extreme congratulations, favoring the former. She’s both surprised and glad that the photo was shot terribly, zoomed beyond all measure and slightly blurred by the taker’s movements. Anne never minded the idea of fame, but infamy on the gossip column…

She’ll have her privacy for now, and the rage of the internet would die down eventually.

She just had to stay away from Phillip Carlyle.

No big.)

* * *

Phillip didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t do much else, really, then roam around at night, fighting every urge to drink himself unconscious at the five nearby bars. Anne didn’t like that habit of his, and just because he’d done something stupid didn’t mean he was about to do something exponentially worse.

He settled for hiding in his office at thirty to midnight, drowning himself in paperwork. _Writing_ —poetry, _sonnets_. Anything and everything he could explain and apologize.

They all had the same title.

 _Coward_.

He didn’t notice he’d written himself to sleep until he awoke with pen impressions on his face and creased paper all around him.

“ _Carlyle_ ,” W.D. half-yelled, entering Phillip’s office. The gentle giant had never given the writer a scowl before, and it placed in the top ten of his Most Unnerving Revelations.

Phillip knew he hadn’t seen the silent fiasco last night, since he didn’t come after him then. So what could it be? “W.D.?”

“Oh no, sir. You’re not gonna be playing ignorant on me,” the acrobat spoke evenly. W.D. handed Phillip his phone. “ _Explain_.”

Phillip took the phone, and it took every ounce of strength within not to storm into the site’s head offices and (personally) wreck them. They had a picture of him holding Anne’s hand—thankfully, her face and form were barely visible—and every obscenity under the sun was written in the comment section. Directed at _her_. “Who did this?” he seethed.

“No, _no_ , bro. You’re not about to go out there and make this worse,” W.D. chided, placing a firm hand on him shoulder. “Now explain to me why _this_ exists, but my sister left the theatre last night, _alone_ , complaining about a ‘stomach ache’.”

Phillip visibly drooped, shame replacing rage. “I...let go,” he confessed. “Of her hand.”

“ _Oh boy_ ,” W.D. breathed. “You’re a dunce, Ivy League.”

“Thanks,” Phillip replied.

“Really, Carlyle, aren’t you playwrights supposed to be big ol’ romantics, or something?” W.D. asked, half-laughing. “If my sister weren’t feeling so down about it, I’d’ve thought you were just a bad writer.”

Phillip groaned. “I wrote on virtues—“

“Oho, even _worse_.”

“—in society—“

“Your grave’s diggin’ itself, bro.”

“—you don’t care much for me, do you?” Phillip asked, exasperated. He knew he looked worse than if he had gotten drunk last night, pulling a stress-filled all-nighter.

W.D.’s mood had improved, and the smirk he gave Phillip made him regret his statement. “That’d be an easy out for you, Carlyle. Nah, I don’t mind you, as long as you treat Anne right.” He nodded at the phone. “Not like those guys.”

Phillip handed over the phone, knowing if he didn’t he’d grip it til it broke. “I’m sorry. For myself and them.”

"Listen, I know you care for Anne a lot,” W.D. said calmly. “It’s pretty obvious. And I know she’s attached to you too. But this mess? You’re gonna have a hard time getting back on her good side, if you even get there.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

W.D. grinned. “I ain’t picking sides, Carlyle. Just statin’ the facts. Anne likes to act like she’s Superman, but those bullets still hit. And she let you in. Remember that.”

Phillip looked him in the eye. “You love her a lot.”

“Now, sir, that’s true for more than one person in this room,” W.D. said slowly, moving to leave. He whistles a quick tune on the way out—it sounds jovial, a song from down south. “She’s a fan of Broadway, by the way. Never seen a show.”

Phillip remembered her saying something about _The Lion King_ —” _The costumes are amazing. I’ve seen pictures of the set and what I’d give to see it for myself_.”

“Thank you,” he replied to the empty hallway.

(He books the tickets immediately; premium seats, front orchestra, but by the aisle so she could see the costumes up close. He knows the people running the Minskoff, and asks them to hold the tickets under both his and Anne’s names—worst case scenario, she could at least enjoy the show, with or without him.

And getting Anne to go with him...she’d pointedly glared him down during the evening performance, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near her himself.

He needed help.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two baby chaps for ya on v-day ;)


	4. step four: attempting

“You shouldn’t’ve talked to him, W.D.,” Anne complained, angrily removing her wig. “Not your business.”

“Nope, it ain’t,” he agreed. He was sitting on the floor by her, stretching. “But _you_ didn’t have to death glare him from center stage either, so call it even, sis.”

Anne flinched, remembering Barnum’s post-show speech. _“Great show, everyone! Maybe more smiles tomorrow, hmm? Anne? Ha-ha, but great show, brava!”_

Not her best plan, but at least she got the message across. “Well...fine. But he earned it.”

W.D. hummed.

“Should’ve had it taken down, at least.”

He kept humming.

“Whose side are you on?” she barked at him.

W.D. raised his hands in surrender. “Just humming. And he did.”

Anne raised a brow. “Did what?”

“He had it taken down.”

She gaped at her brother. “I— _what_?”

“It’s gone. Wiped.” He nudged with his chin in the general direction of her phone. “Check it yourself.”

Anne cautiously searched for the image online...and found _nothing_. Not a single dirty pixel in the entire place. “What the…?”

She kept scrolling down the page, and found a new article gaining traction:

_Phillip Carlyle and Mystery Woman? A Cryptic Response From the Man Himself!_

Despite the clickbait title, she clicked the link. Below the headline was an embedded image from his photography page—black and white, a sharp contrast to the most recent circus photos. It must’ve been taken at the back alley of the theatre Jenny Lind premiered at.

The theatre she ran from.

A single word caption read: _Tethered._

“Ooh, poetic,” W.D. said from over her shoulder. She could say she didn’t jump, but that would’ve been a lie.

“His parents must’ve cleared the news sites,” Anne mumbled, unwilling to satiate her anger. “There’s talk he could lose his trust fund if he stays here, you know.”

“Think he’s had his fun over here, then?”

“Obviously.”

W.D. hummed. He said nothing else, and she left him to change into her civilian clothing. They went home in the same silence, speaking only to remind each other when a car was coming.

The next day, she passed by Barnum’s office on the way back, to pick up a check, and found him more than eager to speak with her.

“Anne, dear, you look like you need a break. Some offense,” he laughed. “I’ve got just the thing—you take your day off on Friday; I’ll have W.D. run solo shows.”

“I—are you sure?” she said, surprised.

“Can’t have you working _too_ hard, Anne. Charity worries, too. Now, I remember you being a fan of _The Lion King_?”

Anne straightened. “Yes?”

Barnum beamed. “I got you a ticket. Best seat in the house.”

“Sir, that’s too kind—“

“Nonsense,” he said with a flourish. “It’s in my best interest that you’re all at tip-top shape. It’s to be picked up at the theatre, under your name,” He gave her his signature Barnum Wink, and she nodded appreciatively.

“Thanks, P.T.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he smiled, handing her her pay. “And take your brother’s, too. I’m leaving in—well, now.” He brushed past her, his grin never really leaving. “Got a meeting with some big players. See you at the show!.”

He left Anne stunned, happy for the gift, but saddened by his obvious absence from the circus in recent days.

(By Thursday night, she and W.D. start talking like nothing happened. She talks to Lettie, and calls home, and tries to ignore the nagging in her heart that keeps yelling for someone she has only seen glimpses of the past few days.

She ignores calls from the man tagged “fancy pants” on her contact list, but doesn’t block him.

She plays with Helen and Caroline, and when they ask her why she doesn’t talk to Phillip anymore, she deflects.

Because frankly, she’s doing this for his benefit, even if he doesn’t get it yet.)

* * *

Phillip finds out Barnum’s going on tour, and dunked all the circus funds into a wild gamble. Forget that he hasn’t been stopping in longer than a few minutes, nor completely ignored his troupe—the frenzy in his eyes when the _potential_ for money and fame greeted him was enough for the circus acts to know: they were on their own.

Phillip rushed at him, hoping to straighten him out, but all people in New York City knew P.T. Barnum was like a rolling train when he got started, and he was deaf to the world.

“Not even a ‘hello’, huh?” Lettie said, watching Barnum slip out the back exit. She was sitting on an old chair, Prince Constantine cutting his nails to her right, and Charles snacking on a bagel on a crate beside her. “We get him his big start, and he dumps us for your old clique. Funny how that works.”

“I’m sorry,” Phillip answered softly. He looked extra frazzled, having rushed from his office to home and back, after receiving a short call from his business partner. His clean, dressed-down outfit was covered in hay.

Charles gave him a once-over. “Forget that. You have a change of clothes, Carlyle?”

Phillip looked down at himself. “What—?”

“Aren’t you gonna be late for something?” Lettie added, nudging him with her words.

Phillip checked his watch, made an ‘O’ with his mouth, and bolted towards the door. “Thanks, guys!”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart!”

P.T. would have to wait—there were much more pressing matters to attend to.

**

Anne was shocked to arrive at the Minskoff Theatre to find out it was _The Lion King_ ’s 15th anniversary show. Barnum knew how to care for people when he tried; shame it was looking like he was too busy getting cash-flow from Jenny Lind’s tour performances.

She walked over to the entrance, nerves betraying her as she asked security where she could pick up her ticket. Following their directions, she made her way inside the theatre doors. The inside of the hall teased reds and golds, a taste of whatever opulence must’ve been past the closed doors which lead to the waiting area. Fine-crafted molding adorned the pillars and lines of the room, and the lights were gorgeous fixtures worth more than her yearly pay, she was sure.

“Hello, I’ve come to pick up a ticket?” she asked the woman behind the glass pane.

“Hi! May I have your name, please?”

“Anne Wheeler—but, ah, it may be under P.T. Barnum?” Anne croaked out. “Sorry, I’m new at this.”

“No problem, dear,” the woman replied, a kind smile on her lips. “Ah, here they are. Two tickets for Ms. Anne Wheeler.” She handed them over, smiling wider. “Nice seats, there. Enjoy the show!”

Anne furrowed her brow. Was she mistaken for someone else? “I—Sorry, I was told it was only one ticket—”

“No, there’s meant to be two.” She knows that voice. “I was afraid you wouldn’t have come if _I_ asked.”

There is thunder raging, but she sees no sign of rain.

...Ah, no. That’s just the thumping of her heart.

Phillip Carlyle is behind her, apologetic as a puppy caught tearing apart a new rug. He gives her the most hopeful smile he can muster, and offered his arm. “If you’ll let me, I’d love to escort you to your seat. It _may_ be next to mine.”

Anne felt herself smile, slow and small. She looks at him, eyes sparkling, and to the beautiful building they were standing in. The line was starting to form outside; the light winter weather meant good company was needed to keep warm.

 _Just to keep warm_ , she told herself. _Not because of anything else, Wheeler._

“I always wanted to go to the theatre,” she answered quietly, holding to his arm. She moved to walk back outside, but he tugged her back.

Phillip was beaming at her, uncontrollable giddiness all over himself. “Well, Ms. Wheeler, if that’s the case, I know a special entrance.”

 _You love this boy_. Anne reminded herself. _Be careful._

“Lead the way.”

* * *

They didn’t make it far.

Phillip had no reason to assume his _parents_ were even mildly interested in seeing a children’s musical, but he should’ve anticipated an anniversary show could drag them out of their stuffy old house long enough to see the _same show he and Anne were seeing_.

“Phillip?” his father called, overdressed for a Broadway show. “Who on earth is _that_? Did anyone see you together?”

Phillip could feel Anne tense beside him, and he himself boiled at the words.

“You’re hanging around with those circus freaks in _and_ out of the show, now? Do you read about what people think?” his mother added, rapid-fire.

“You can still come home, son. We can set your inheritance back,” his father chided. He looked at Anne with disgust. “Leave the rabble with its kind.”

Phillip glared down at his parents, loosening his grip for a split-second, and Anne _ran_.

“ _Anne_!” he called. She sprinted through the doors they’d entered through, the man guarding it struck dumb. Phillip turned back to his parents, raging. “If I still cared about money and what people think, father, mother—I’d still be _stuck_ with _you_.”

He ran down the stairs, taking his phone out and trying to call Anne repeatedly. Her phone was already off.

_And again, Carlyle, you’ve outdone yourself._

* * *

Phillip forgoes calling anyone else in the circus, sure that Anne would want to keep this between them.

He finds her in the ring, changed into her practice wear, wrapping her hands and untying the ropes from their hooks.

“Mr. Carlyle, I think it best we don’t see each other anymore,” she spoke without turning. “‘fraid I won’t be good company with your high society, folks.”

“They’re not my society, Anne.”

“Please, Mr. Carlyle.” Ice filled her words, building a barrier between them. “I don’t want to be the cause of you losing comfort.”

Phillip felt tears run down his cheeks; he was numb to everything else. “ _Anne_. I didn’t join the circus for money. I joined it to find happiness.”

She paused, the rope clenched between her fists. “And did you find it, sir?”

“Yes,” Phillip choked out. He moved closer, cautiously reaching out for her shoulder. “She just doesn’t want to look at me at the moment.”

Anne finished untying the tether, and she felt the tug of the falling sandbag. “Maybe she’s realized happiness inside these walls is bound to break on the outside.”

The whirring of rope on pulley intensified, and she went upwards, where he couldn’t follow.

(He calls Lettie before the bottle’s tempting voice gets any louder, and they meet at the apartment she shares with the albino siblings, drowning in sad music and hot tea.

“Phillip, you cleared the sites of the picture, didn’t you?” she asked when he was only half-awake.

“Lettie,” he murmured. In the drowsiness, he could see Anne rising away from him all over again. “The internet is _vile._ ”

“Oh, Phil,” she pat his cheek. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have, but you can’t protect her from everything.”

“To love...” he yawned, “...is to try.”)

(Anne gets home at 9:30 p.m., and W.D. says nothing about it. He opts to shove a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of hot soup in front of her.

“Eat,” he said simply. “We don’t have a matinee tomorrow. We’re watching _The Princess and the Frog_ tonight, hear?”

She nodded. No use in arguing about it—W.D. didn’t pry, but he _did_ know how to force-feed her happiness via Disney movies. Especially one that reminded her of home.

Near the end of the film, Anne finally speaks: “I should call Mama and Pop.”

W.D. hummed. He picked up her plate and headed for the kitchen. “Get ‘em on video chat. I miss ‘em too.”

She asked them how they _knew_. They told her they didn’t.

But it seemed worth a shot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey good news! fic's done! I'll be updating real quick over the weekend, maybe every day or every other day.
> 
> thanks for all the love, fam <3
> 
> EDIT: mmk trying to figure out why the chap notes from chap 1 show up in 3&4 but not in 2?? if anyone's got a fix lmk!


	5. step five: waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two a day seems fair

W.D. blocked Phillip from approaching Anne per her request for the next few months, like a good brother. He was happy to oblige, but he knew the wall between them didn’t help either any—Anne clammed up whenever Phillip entered the same space, and the writer hung out with as many of the other acts—and sometimes, even Charity—as much as possible to keep from lapsing back to the drink. Life caught up with him from the sidelines; first Anne, then his blood family.

(Mostly Lettie and Prince Constantine, really. Charles was singled out to _never_ go alone with Phillip, considering his own drinking habits.

But the most agonizing part? With Barnum off on tour, Phillip was stuck to give the bows.

Including Anne’s.)

Backstage was filled with tension from inside and out: protestors hell-bent on “freeing” the troupe-members (while also managing to insult them and their intelligence) filled the back alley and building entrance every show, and troublemakers mixed in with them, breaking glass and picking fights.

Phillip, for his part, tried to arrange for more security, but dwindling funds due to the Lind tour had him calling Barnum repeatedly for some sort of help.

And the great showman himself? He’d been marketing Jenny Lind’s tour so aggressively that she’d become uncomfortable with it all, and whispers of her bowing out before Barnum saw profit soon reached New York. Phillip was soon ignoring calls and canceling interviews; he didn’t know any more than the public, as much as it pained him to admit.

Charity and the girls visited as often as they could, sharing meals with the cast and boosting morale. Anne was grateful to be able to entertain the young Barnums. But sometimes they would ask about Phillip, or bring up something he’d shown them, and she had to deflect and defend.

(And sometimes they with Phillip, and his somber eyes betrayed him more than he knew.)

Then came the breaking news of all entertainment sites.

_Jenny Lind Resigns! Barnum Sent Packing; How the Showbiz Mogul Hit Rock Bottom_

The circus reeled. When Barnum arrives home the next day, he finds out Charity and their daughters have been evicted, moving back to his in-laws’ house. He sulked, making his way with them to the circus to bear the bad news.

And the worst comes in the night.

It should’ve been a regular aftershow—the crowd had cheered, a standing ovation, and left chattering loudly about the authentic and classic look of their circus. A normal Tuesday.

Some of the cast had changed into regular clothing quicker than others, ready to head home. They headed to the back door as usual, waving off to Phillip before he returned to his office to finish paperwork—which is when he heard the door slam, and the angry yelling.

By the time he’d run down the stairs, most of the oddities were exchanging punches (and crates) with drunken rabble-rousers, security nowhere to be found. He saw Cindy, one of their new acrobats, jump down from a bannister, knocking a man away from Lettie, and mentally noted to give her a raise.

He threw a punch at someone who was about to swing a metal pipe at W.D.’s head, knocking him to the ground. Slowly, the fight turned into their favor, until Phillip heard the metal door to the back alley slam shut, and Prince Constantine yell from behind, “ _FIRE!_ ”

* * *

Anne’s not sure how many men she sees W.D. kick in the most illegal place she knows, but she’s highly aware of more and more of them trying to enter the door that’s clearly marked “EXIT”. Far below and across the room, Lettie brandishes her brush like a club/knife combination, giving the thugs a real close-up of her quality bristles. Cindy drops from the banister two floors below her, knocking another to the floor.

Prince Constantine is to Lettie’s right, flanked by Charles, who has his pellet guns in hand, and very much loaded. One drunk comes close, cigarette in his mouth and lighter in the other, but the Prince pushing him back easily.

That is when she realized that the man hadn’t meant to strike, but to _throw_. He gives them an evil grin, and runs.

All she heard next is the slam of a metal door, and the crackle of fire.

* * *

“C’mon Lettie, that’s it,” Phillip said, escorting the woman outside.

Ahead of him, he sees Barnum, eyes wide in fear. “Is everyone out?”

“Where’s Anne?!” W.D. yelled, scanning the growing crowd. He locks eyes with Phillip, and they both turn to Barnum.

“ _No_!” Barnum called, holding W.D. back.

He realized his mistake the second he caught Phillip’s eyes once more.

“ _Phillip_!” Lettie yelled from the crowd. “Phillip, _don’t_!”

“Phillip!”

“Carlyle, no!”

But he was gone.

* * *

“W.D.!” Anne screamed, rushing out the side of the building. She’d been by a window, and scrambled to get out and to the ground in agonizingly slow movements so as to not run into the arsonists on her way to safety.

“Anne!”

“It’s Anne, she’s here!”

“ _Annie_!” W.D. beamed, tears creeping out as he sets his eyes on her form, safe and whole.

She feels something off when he hugs her tighter than necessary, as if he were making sure she stayed. “W.D., what’s wrong?”

W.D.’s stared at Barnum, frozen.

Ice.

Barnum ran. The Twins and the Lord of Leeds blocked off Charity and the girls from moving closer to the building.

“Barnum!”

“ _Phin_!”

“P.T., come back!”

Anne felt her stomach drop. “W.D., who—“

“He thought you were still inside,” he answered monotonously. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the building. “P.T. held me back. But Anne, he was farther. P.T. couldn’t grab him, too.”

Tears stung her eyes; she wasn’t sure if the smoke caused it, or if it was the feeling of knowing. Knowing it would’ve been worth a shot.

 _Come out_ , she thought desperately. _Come out, Phillip._ Please _. I’m sorry._

 _Crash!_ A large chunk of the ceiling collapsed into the fire, right down to when Barnum had run in. Anne heard screaming; W.D. tightened hug, rocking her from side to side—it was her. She heard Charity slump onto someone, too shocked to react.

Everyone waited.

No one breathed.

Time stopped.

Then, “ _There!”_

The world turned back up to full blast, and Anne realized the ambulances had arrived, and the fire department had finally crossed the traffic lines of downtown Manhattan. She could go deaf hearing those sirens, but the screams and shouts of joy from the troupe at the sight of Barnum carrying out a body— _Please be alive, please be alive_ —was enough to knock her back into her senses.

Barnum lowered him to the ground, and W.D. released her. Her body moved on autopilot, holding his hand as if hers belonged there.

“He took a lot of smoke, but he’s still breathing,” Barnum coughed.

One of the EMT’s approached, his partners carrying a stretcher. “Sir, we’ll have to take you to the hospital, and this fella too.”

The other EMT’s were already loading Phillip on. One placed a breathing pack over his mouth, and another turned to Anne, who hadn’t let go. “You can ride along, miss, if you’d like.”

“I—“ She turned, looking for her brother. W.D. simply nodded. She looked back at the EMT. “Thank you, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	6. step six: bargaining

_He up yet_?

The light of her phone fills the hospital room, blinding her momentarily. She typed slowly, one hand still clasped to Phillip’s, looking up every now and then, afraid to miss him awaking.

_doc says he inhaled a lot of smoke. has a concussion, too. he’s stable so they moved him to a room_

Her phone buzzes almost immediately. _Did they give any estimates?_

_couple days or a couple weeks, they don’t know. say talking to him helps_

_So talk to him, dummy._

She frowned, but her phone buzzed again before she could think up a reply.

_I’ll bring you breakfast._

“W.D.’s a piece of work, ain’t he?” she said aloud. Phillip’s beeping monitor was all she had as noise company. Anne clutched Phillip’s hand tightly. “Hey, fancy pants. Time to wake up, now,” she coaxed. She had long succumbed to her tears when speaking; there was nothing worth hiding here, with him. “Phillip, my brother’s bringing breakfast. Homemade—you’ve never had his cooking, right? Bet his eggs ben would put all your five star restaurants to shame.”

Footsteps entered the room, and Anne turns to find Barnum, cleaned up yet somehow still worse for wear. “How’s he lookin’?”

She gave him a smile, grateful he ignored her tears. “Bit better. Vitals are stable.” She turned to Phillip. “Now if he would only wake up.”

Barnum nodded, solemnly. “Kid put _me_ as his emergency contact. Still debating if I should call his parents.”

“Would they even answer?” Anne heard herself ask. As far as she was concerned, all her energy was being spent trying to will the man before her to wake up, through sheer force of hand strength and non-existent telepathy.

“Probably not. He said they officially disowned him almost three months ago.”

Anne spun to face her ringmaster, quick as lightning. “They _what_?”

Barnum blinked. “You didn’t know? It was all over the news.”

“I—” Her hands shook, both now clamped to Phillip’s own. _Three months ago? That was when…_ “—we stopped talking—I didn’t know, I was avoiding—” _Him. Avoiding him, and everything to do with him_. “—I was focused on the _trapeze_. This _whole time_.”

“Anne, it’s alright,” Barnum cooed, patting her back. “There, there. It’s alright.”

“P.T.,” she whispered, “what if he doesn’t wake up?” _What if I don’t get to tell him?_

“Why Ms. Wheeler,” he replied, flashing his signature grin, and leaning over to put a hand over her shaking ones, “have you already forgotten how stubborn the greatest playwright of your generation is?”

Anne slowly, carefully smiled, a chuckle escaping her lips. She looked fondly at the sleeping man, and sniffled. “He wanted to give us a try.”

Barnum didn’t speak, instead using his free arm to embrace the young lady. After a few more minutes, he gave her a quick smile, then got up to leave. “I’ve gotta go see what’s left of the circus. You call me or Charity when he wakes up, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Anne said, a teasing smile on her lips.

After Barnum closes the door, it drops back to a tight, worried frown. She stretched out a hand to Phillip’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. She laughed lightly. “Wake up, Mr. Carlyle. Did you forget your manners?” Her thumb caressed his cheek, running into plastic tubes with every motion. She hummed W.D.’s familiar tune quietly. Her throat was dry when she spoke. “You’re not supposed to keep a lady waiting.”

(W.D. brings breakfast as promised, and his optimism shows when he presents two packed lunches instead of one.

“NYU may have the some of the finest medical treatments this side of the Hudson, but Carlyle’s gonna want to eat some _real_ food, I’d bet,” he wagers, beaming at his sister.

“Any word on the arsonist?” Anne asks.

“Not one. Give it time, sis.” W.D. gives her a big hug, and kisses her forehead. “Give it time.”

Anne’s afraid that’s all she has left to give.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I change the timeline a bit to keep that last line? y o u b e t c h a


	7. step seven: ending

The cycle of visitors rotated from any one of the Barnums, to any one of the troupe. Anne learned two days in from Prince Constantine that Phillip’s parents had been notified of the accident, but with all the circus folks hanging around him day in and day out, plus having knowledge of him being stable (though unconscious), they’d opted to learn from the doctors in charge instead of their disowned boy.

Honestly, Anne was surprised they even went that far—Phillip had his own insurance, paid for handsomely with royalty from his plays. Neither parents nor child wanted any sort of dependence, it seemed, and Anne felt guilt for not being with him then, and for adding insult to injury.

Lettie visited the third day, telling her about how Barnum’s broke and lost his house. That Charity and he had a fight, and she and the kids went to the in-laws to stay, Barnum opting to couch surf at Charles’ place.

“He’s been drinking heavy,” Lettie recounted. “Almost like your boy here,” she nodded at Phillip. “Could sure use his powers of persuasion to talk some sense into Barnum.”

Anne laughed, a sharp contrast to the dark circles under her eyes. “That’s a fine idea, but I’d like to think staging an intervention before it gets too bad would be better.”

“ _Mm_ , true. You’ll be with us?” Lettie asked, hand over heart.

“Right there, I will,” Anne answered, nodding. “Or, you could Facetime me in.”  
“Oh, I’ll let Charles know. Take care now, sweetheart.” Lettie clasped her hands over hers, beard following the curve of her jaw as she smiled. “We’ll be back once we get that man straightened out.”

(Charles visits that evening, with W.D.

“Pick a god and pray, kid,” he jokes. “And charge your phone. We’ll call you in bright and early at 11.”

“That’s not that early,” she says.

Charles huffs, raising his brows. “For P.T. these days, it is.”

She smirks. “11 it is.”

Anne never lets go of Phillip’s hand.)

* * *

“ _You gave us a home, when our own parents didn’t want us. Don’t quit on us now,”_ Lettie said, her voice carrying over in hazy quality through Anne’s phone’s speaker.

Anne saw Barnum relax slowly, pushing away the pint in his hand. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, Charles’ phone—and thus, her view—getting tossed around and smothered by her lovely, crazy family.

It gets passed to her brother, who straightens out the view. She hears cheering, and sees Charles hug his dear friend around the neck. “ _What we say? Once in the circus—_ “

“ _—always in the circus_ ,” Barnum finished, hugging back the small man. “ _From now on, no more side-shows! You all are plenty respectable. Don’t let me or anyone else tell you otherwise!_ ”

He _whooped_ and spoke some more, the sound rounding off at certain volumes. Dog Boy climbed the bar, and W.D. joined him. They started a beat running with their steps and slaps, and soon the whole bar was transformed into a theatre.

A _circus_.

An with the laughter and jovial music coming from her phone distracting her, Anne almost missed the twitch in the hand she held.

 _Almost_.

A sharp gasp escaped from her lips, eyes wide and jaw tight.

W.D. saw her face snap to shock, pulling the camera closer to him. “Anne? What’s wrong?”

She spun, extremely grateful she’d propped her phone on the windowsill beside her and hadn’t opted to hold it—it would’ve been dropped by now. Phillip’s hand twitched again, and she moved closer to his face, kissing his palm as she _hoped_.

W.D. was calling her.

She couldn’t hear him.

Phillip’s hand clenched hers slowly, and she made a trail from it to his face, _waiting_.

A beat.

In the distance, a bird was singing. Or perhaps it was Lettie, but who knew the difference?

Another.

Anne felt the world freeze. No dust falling, no trees swaying.

Only a hand slowly gaining strength.

Yet another.

She’s lost, and it feels fantastic.

Blue eyes crackled to life before her; the voice that speaks to her is dry, surprised, and utterly smitten.

“You’re _here_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ending...the coma
> 
> and also the barnum's pity party


	8. step eight: beginning

Phillip dreamed.

It was spring—birds sang on the windowsill, and he spotted red-bellied robins amongst their blue-and-white brethren. A pair of cardinals joined them, their jarring sound reminding him of...something. Something he forgot.

He looked around: the garden in which he sat was small, almost non-existent. His neighbor’s house was less than five feet away, blocked by a high fence. _His_ house, or what seemed to be his, was white and simple, but the back window offered s snapshot of a refrigerator covered in a child’s drawings.

Within seconds, he was in front of the little museum, hands tracing the lines of the drawings. He read more than one name signing the collection, but  every time he looked away, he forgot.

A noise from above caught his attention; something thumping onto the ground. Several voices reached his ears, but he only recognized one.

 _Anne_. Phillip moved towards the staircase in the next room. _That’s Anne!_

He rushed up the steps, turned into the room from where he heard the sounds and—

Arrived at a park, surrounded by all the troupe. Lettie was telling him a joke about concrete and cones. Charity was strolling by a small bridge with Barnum, not ten feet from him. O’Malley was on a hill, teaching his daughter how to pick a pocket. The Irish Giant—

Wait.

His daughter?

Phillip squinted, unsure what gave him the thought. The child looked nothing like him, but still…

He felt the pang of familiarity, and walked closer to the child—a little South Asian looking girl who spoke with a lisp. She giggled, and he saw the scar of an old facial surgery.

“O’Malley! Please don’t start our sweet girl on bad habits.”

A hand landed on Phillip’s shoulder, and he turned to find Anne. Or, who was probably Anne, had she not covered her face. Her voice was crystal clear, and her skin glowed in the setting sun.There, on her hand, was a simple wedding band. “Could you get her, Phil? I’ve gotta watch the other two. Might try to cannonball into the pond again.”

“Sure,” he responded, immediately walking to the girl.

He almost reached her...then the grass withered. Fire, crazed fire erupted from below the hill. No—his house. _Their_ house.

W.D. was with him outside, holding the children—the same child as before, joined by a slightly older boy with pale skin and no arms, and another girl whose eyes were not alike, and had a tail to boot. “Phillip, where’s Anne?”

“Where’s Anne?” Phillip repeated to himself in a whisper. “Where’s…Anne…”

He whirled to face the burning building, his children screaming for both him and their mother as he ran inside.

He screamed for her, a hand stretched out blindly before him. He climbed the deteriorating staircase, hoping.

Time slows as the smoke starts to fill his lungs, and he feels lightheaded. It all seems very familiar but he can’t figure out _why_. A beam behind him falls and he yells out for Anne again, making his way to the back room.

Finally, mercifully, he feels a hand grab his, and he’s pulled forward into a bright light.

“Anne—“

The hospital ceiling is stark and blinding, but he still feels the hands clasped around his, holding on for dear life.

He can breathe again.

“—you’re _here_.”

(There is a wall that has been moved from between them to around them, and W.D. is one of its base blocks. Phillip screams it to the world the second Anne gives him the a-OK, posting a picture of them together, after he’s cleared by the doctors to go home.

Their first real date is Broadway, and they take the front entrance with paparazzi swarming them.

Their second is at the Wheeler house, and W.D. is their chef.

Their third? Sushi backstage, two hours to show time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hashtag embrace the outcasts, adopt a kid


	9. epilogue

Barnum passed him the hat after two weeks of sold out shows. He semi-retires, preferring the backstage planning over the stage itself in order to spend more time with his family.

(They skipped rebuilding and went straight for tents—Phillip’s savings and the damage fines the arsonists had to pay made it possible to hire extra security on top of it all.)

Phillip’s first order of business is to dip his girlfriend in front of a roaring crowd, and to give her a kiss in their presence.

“Staking a claim, there, city boy?” Anne teased backstage. Her wig was starting to itch, and she started to walk off toward her dressing room.

Phillip didn’t stop her, opting to walk alongside the lady he loved. He smiled at her. “Never, and last I checked, you’re from a big city, too.”

“We have varying definitions of ‘big city’.”

“That’s fine,” the ringmaster said. He twirled is hat. “As long as we have the same definition of ‘love’.”

“Go be smooth where I can’t hear it, Carlyle,” W.D. commented monotonously, pushing past the couple. “Some of us gotta change.” He’d made a slightly wrong move during the show, and his leotard had a growing tear in an undesirable place.

Anne laughed, happier than she could imagine. The usually dancing lights were still for the moment, and when they caught on Phillip’s eyes she recognized the same adoration she’d seen the first time they’d met.

She loved him.

“It’s not funny!” W.D. yelled from up ahead.

“Naw, it’s _hilarious_!” Charles guffawed from on atop the Irish Giant.

“I better go help him,” Anne said, tearing her eyes away from Phillip. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Got it, love you,” Phillip replied absentmindedly, still having that dopey smile on his lips.

Anne’s eyes widened.

Phillip’s followed suit.

“Did you—“

“Gotta go,” he cut her off, kissing her cheek and running off. “If Lettie asks, I didn’t say it first!”

(Lettie did ask.

Phillip lost $20.

“You bet on us?” Anne gawked at him after finding out about the gamble.

“In my defense, I thought you’d have said it sooner because of the, uh, _almost_ _dying_ thing,” he replied simply.

“...Touché.”)

* * *

A few months later the troupe collectively decides to tour the circus around the United States.

They plan it extensively, making sure to have full-time security on staff and finding sleeping arrangements for everyone. The Barnums surprise them with their own set of special RVs, all decorated according to each act. Good ol’ Mr. Bennet surprises them by praising their idea to tour.

“Says it’ll ‘bring joy to America’—is he alright?” Charles asked the day his article came out. He pointed to his head. “Sounds like he took a hit up here.”

Lettie shrugged. “ _I’m_ not complaining. But, also, I heard his youngest grandkid liked the circus.” She eyed the acrobats, W.D. and Anne specifically. “Said something about some nice kids teaching her how to _jump the fence_.”

“What terrible influences,” Anne said, innocence plastered all over her face.

“Yup, terrible,” W.D. added, crossing his arms in mock disappointment. “Shame on them.”

Lettie laughed, and they went back to packing.

The Louisiana stops offered the Wheeler siblings a week and a half of visiting with their parents, but Phillip takes them to dinner separately.

“Where’s your boy?” W.D. asked Anne before their last show in town.

Anne scrunched up her nose, thinking. It was close to showtime, and Phillip wasn’t one to be late. She tried to call him, but the ever-present _Please leave a message after the tone_ message eventually got to her. “Dunno. Keeps going to voicemail. Did he tell you where he was going?”

 _To “meet the parents”, but you don’t know_ , W.D. thought, hoping Phillip arrived soon so he didn’t have to lie to his sister more than necessary. He shook his head. “He just said dinner. Might’ve picked up a present for you on the way.”

“Ha,” Anne said, “That would—“

From the show tent, they heard the trill of music, and Phillip’s energy-charged voice. “ _Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for!”_

“Showtime,” they said to each other, grinning.

(It turned out to be _quite_ the present.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a run, and a fun one! thanks for reading, fam :) lmk what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> some misc things not to be repeated later on:  
> -a preemptive strike, if you will: I'm dashing the film subplot with The Picture, because Jenny Lind deserves better (none of this matters til way later, but just. FYI.)  
> -this is, by far, the hardest modern au I've had to adapt, mostly because as a new yorker this is *probably* already a stretch, just from its premise. but whatever! fiction!! suspension of belief!!!  
> -kudos and comments appreciated, though not required--the fic itself is quite long for something I've written, and it's almost complete. some lil things to fix here and there on the doc file, but if all goes well I'll be updating every few days until it's done. if all goes Really Well (AKA I forgot I'm trying to space them out, as I do), it'll all be up much sooner.  
> -if you're not familiar with my style, I sum it up as: a hot mess. some chaps may be longer, some may be shorter--cuts depend on the mood of the scene, not word length. I've never been that good at creeping out sentences, and I prefer not to. mood/visuals over exposition.
> 
> again, huge s/o to mama cheetah, can't have done it without you, dude.
> 
> happy sunday, and God bless ya fine folks.


End file.
